


and in the darkness, there's light

by fuechsli



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Deep Conversations, Draco Malfoy-centric, Draco's suffering here, Healing, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, More tags to be added, Original Character(s), PTSD, References to Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, and they choose ugly ways to get revenge, because Harry's here, because people are not good at forgiving, but he will get better, but only after a lot of struggling, oblivious boys in love, really - Freeform, there's also a lot of general nastiness in this fic, they still both need a hug, this is not a fluffy fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-03-21 08:25:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13736994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuechsli/pseuds/fuechsli
Summary: “It’s going to be okay,” Potter says, again, and Draco wonders if maybe, he can believe him. He has defeated the Dark Lord once already, after all, so maybe he can do it all over again, even if it’s just in Draco’s head.“Is it really?” Draco mumbles against Potter’s shoulder, and he’s glad when his voice doesn’t shake.“I promise.”And Draco finds that yes, he does believe him.He just wonders what it might cost them both to keep that promise.***Unexpectedly, Hogwarts' Eight Year leads to more than the chance to get away from everything just for one more year.It's also the chance to find to oneself, to heal and move on, find forgiveness and maybe even love.It's up to Draco whether to take it or not.((summary subject to change))





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> After reading too many Drarry Fics and running out of stuff to read (or at least not finding more of the quality angsty stuff I like), it somehow happened that I wrote my own fic (the first one for this pairing and fandom), and it also escalated pretty quickly. What started out as a angsty drabble has now started amassing plots and ideas and is in the process of being written whenever I hit a slump in my other fics (which appears to be all the time, at the moment), so, here we are.  
> I hope you like it and that I didn't butcher all the characters, because to be honest, I've read the Harry Potter Series one single time four years back and while I'm not a hardcore fan, I really fell in love with this pairing and just couldn't help myself. I get most of my infos and inspiration from other fics and the Harry Potter Wiki, so blame them if something doesn't make sense ^^  
> (btw, it just came to mind that I probably read a Drarry fic first before I ever picked up 'Harry Potter and the Philopher's Stone', hah.)  
> Anyway, let's start this adventure with a quick warning: it's painful and deals with some issues in some ways it isn't always done with in fanfics, but due to my love for heavy, angsty stuff this happened. It's also a slow burn, mostly because the boys have to work through so many issues and I try to stay at least somewhat realistic, so. 
> 
> Here you go.
> 
> (Sorry for my enormous Author's note; it's always like this with me. I also don't have a beta, so all mistakes are mine. and it's probably American English, because I couldn't quite figure out how to change the language settings on my spell-checking and I hate red underlines. I apologize for everything.)

In the end, it happens when he least expects it. 

It’s a nice evening, really, the autumn chill only just starting to creep into the cracks of the castle walls, the leaves on the trees outside turning orange and red and yellow as the world undergoes yet another change, slowly and with no concerns for human problems of any kind, and he’s alone. 

He’s got his cloak wrapped around himself to shield against the breeze that’s ghosting through the castle’s hallways, in that part of Hogwarts where reconstruction hasn’t been a priority yet, and where he often finds some peace and quiet. 

But not today, apparently. 

He doesn’t notice it at first, because with half a mind he’s still trying to work out a solution for that last Arithmacy equation, because he’s forgotten his Potion’s book in the classroom and he really needs to do some reading for the next project, because his left thumb is still aching faintly and writing really is a pain, and then, when a stronger gust of wind wafts around the corner, there’s suddenly footsteps and muffled laughter and the brush of robes, and Draco’s mind has a split-second to think ‘ _oh, fuck_ ’ before he forcefully shuts down on it, because he’s _stopped caring_ , and he’s oh so very tired of this. 

His body locks up for another moment after, swept up in the all-encompassing urge to flee and _get away_ , but really, he should know better by now, should know that it’s easier to let it happen, to ignore the pain and threats, the stares and hexes thrown his way; it’s simpler to pretend it’s happening to someone else, because then it doesn’t hurt as much. Or at least, that’s what Draco tells himself, and he needs to believe it. He really tries.

But in the end, he’s still a Slytherin, and Slytherins have neither ever been particularly good at bravery, nor been able to lie to themselves for long, because while they _are_ excellent liars, they also have a certain knack for self-preservation, and you learn early on that lying to yourself just won’t get you anywhere. It’s better to acknowledge the weakness (but only to yourself) and work out a way around it rather to let it simmer and stew and hope for the best. Because as history has shown all too clearly, the best just doesn’t happen to Slytherins—or at least not to Draco Malfoy. So, while it might be beneficial to some part of him, the one that still has _feelings_ and a strong will to live, the other part just serves to prove to himself over and over again that Draco is really shit at deceiving himself, at pretending to be fine, to _really not care_ , and so it’s today that it happens, the thing that was bound to happen anyway; his masks finally crack and slip and he can admit to himself that he really fucking wishes that he could be done with this. Just— _done_. 

Because it hurts. So very, very much. And Draco doesn’t think it’s going to stop anytime soon. 

Not unless something rather drastic happens, at least. Which is precisely why he doesn’t expect it when it does. Malfoys don’t usually get what they wish for, after all. 

 

Where there was only Draco and rubble and dust (and a beheaded knight’s armor or two) just moments before, the hallway’s now crawling with Gryffindors and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and hell, probably even the odd Slytherin. And they all have made it their personal mission to make Draco’s life hell ever since the Wizengamot’s decision to be so lenient with his sentence. 

In the end, it’s basically this: Draco’s taken a near-midnight stroll through abandoned hallways, as he’s won’t to do these days because he really can’t sleep when he’s not absolutely exhausted, and then he’s turned around a corner and there they were. 

It always starts quicker than he can really react to, and so it’s not long until his screams drown in their raucous laughter, and there are enough _Muffliato_ s cast that he’s sure he won’t be heard anyway. And even if, it’s not as though there’s a single soul here at Hogwarts (or anywhere else in the world) who would actually care if they heard, let alone be bothered enough to actively try to put a stop to it or some such thing, so really, he’s long since stopped trying to hold in these screams. 

Has long since stopped caring about his reputation here at Hogwarts; and pride is something he only remembers as a vague concept, especially when his body is writhing under the Cruciatus Curse and there’s students of almost all years flocked around him, watching on gleefully as yet another one of them finally gets their turn. Not all of them choose to use Crucio, mind. Some are content with the odd Stinging Hex, or maybe a Slashing Spell or a Flagrate if they’re feeling particularly cruel and want to write out just what they think of him. 

(He doesn’t think about how he’d hoped that that kind of thing would stop after the Carrows, after Beatrix and Greyback and Voldemort, and all these other horrors. Doesn’t want to think about how he’d hoped for a break, a light at the end of the tunnel, maybe, only to be dragged down into the darkness all over again.) 

He’s learned the hard way that after the initial pain fades and the shock starts wearing off it’s usually more painful to have to heal a bitten-through lip or tongue in addition to everything else, rather than to just let it happen in the first place, just because he’s been too stubborn and tried to stop himself from screaming. A hoarse voice is easier to be explained away than the inability to speak properly, or a bloody mouth. 

It’s not as though anyone other than those present will know about that particular failing of his anyway, and he rather doubts they’re stupid enough to incriminate themselves by prancing around about Draco Malfoy’s inexistent dignity while being Crucio’d, so he’s stopped trying to hold it in. Draco firmly believes ( _has_ to believe, because he doesn’t think he could bear the other option) that they really aren’t that stupid, because if they were, McGonagall surely would have put a stop to it by now. She _is_ the Headmistress after all, and though she and Draco have never been overly fond of each other, he knows that she’s of the decent sort, the one who’d put fairness above her own aversion to him. He wouldn’t be here otherwise, would he? 

Then again, fairness has been yet another rather difficult concept lately—surely every single one of those student would contend under Veritaserum that what they’re doing to him is only _fair_ —hell, even Draco would be hard-pressed to deny it. It’s not as though he doesn’t think he deserves it, after all; he knows full well that he does, it’s just that he’s becoming really damned tired of it. Of having to wake up every day just to heal and hide and Glamour bruises and fractures and curse marks from the day before; of waking up in pain and knowing that this day will be no different from the one before, or the one before, or the one before. Of the whispers and shouts and rumors and hateful things said behind his back rather than just to his face—and all those that _are_ said to his face, and honestly, those aren’t much better, most days. 

It’s a futile attempt of foolish children to teach him a lesson when he’s long since learned it, but it’s not like he can just up and tell them so, maybe even put a stop to it. He’d really rather study for his NEWTs, which are the sole reason why he’s even here anymore. 

He’s started out just wanting to make it out of this alive, but he’s begun wondering whether it’s really still worth it. Or whether maybe it’d just be easier to do as everyone obviously wants him to, and give up. 

(But Malfoys don’t give up.)

(Not without a fight.)

 

It’s Paulo Garmetti, he thinks, the one to trip him up in the end. Literally. Figuratively. 

He’s not from one of the families who’s lost the most during this War, but he does hold a grudge like a king. His mother’s a Muggleborn, Draco thinks, and it was her sister who was one of—

He doesn’t want to think about it. Any of it. 

His breathing is ragged, his legs shaking from where he’s just been released from a particularly nasty version of the Leg-Locker Curse, his back burning with fading Stinging Hexes, and his hand’s clenched tight around the Ministry-administered wand (one of the conditions imposed on him in order to be able return to Hogwarts for a so called Eight Year). But it’s not as though he’d be able to actually use it in order to defend himself; there’s a monitoring spell placed on it, one that shrieks like a monkey whenever he tries to use it outside of classes or when not in the presence or at least close proximity of a professor. So it’s technically useless to hold on to it, but while he’s being honest with himself he can admit that it’s still kind of a comfort; it gives the illusion of a fallback-plan, of stability and _strength_ , or at least a semblance of it; a fraction of his old bravado. 

But he’s on his feet, at least, and he’s trying to stumble away from the gaggle of students, his throat sore and body weak from singed nerve endings and white-hot pain still blazing through him with every movement, and then he’s there, Paulo Garmetti, a grin in his face, a nasty slur on his lips and his foot outstretched. A shove to his back from an anonymous hand, and Draco’s precarious balance is lost; he only just manages to catch himself on his hands rather than his face as he stumbles and falls, and then he tries to roll over onto his back and get up again, to not linger in this position of submission and _weakness_ any longer than necessary, but Paulo Garmetti’s boot is already there, catching him in the face, and then he’s _choking_.

He stays down, black spots dancing in his vision as he tries to drag in a breath past the pounding pain but only manages to swallow blood, bitter and metallic, and oh so familiar. 

(His mind flashes back to a train in Sixth Year, his own boot on Potter’s nose, and he suddenly feels sorry for having broken the fragile bone—it really does hurt like a bitch.) 

There’s a shuffle among the students, then, a whispered conversation, some shouts and protest, gleeful snickering. Draco wonders what they’ve thought up for him now—and whether it’ll finally be enough to kill him. He thinks, strangely detached, numb in all the places where the pain’s got that bit _too much_ , that he wouldn’t really care either way. It’d be a decision made for him, one that he doesn’t have to make for himself, _can’t_ make for himself, because he’s too much a Slytherin, too much a _Malfoy_ , to seriously contemplate it, but still, sometimes he _wonders_. 

“ _I really don’t think we should_ —” someone says, and Draco thinks it might be Zacharias Smith, the Hufflepuff. He almost laughs at the thought of the better nature of a Hufflepuff finally winning out, and then he does, because he bloody well doesn’t have to lose anything anymore, and Zacharias Smith has been in on this from the beginning and has never seemed to worry about his better nature before, so this must be something really fucking good if it terrifies him enough to make his voice quiver and actually remember his House’s supposed qualities. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Garmetti snarls, “he _deserves_ this, and you know it.” 

And Draco blinks open his eyes past the puffiness that comes from a broken nose, and he sees that Garmetti’s drawn his wand and there’s a mad glint in his eyes, and then he says “Sectumsempra!” and Draco closes his eyes again, not quite smiling, but also not quite _not_ , and then the curse hits him, and that’s another kind of pain he’s all too familiar with, though he thinks that he really liked it better when it was Potter at the other end of the wand, and then he thinks, “ _oh_ ,” because it really hurts a fucking lot, and then he doesn’t think much more, because there _is_ Potter, or is it, and then there’s blackness reaching out with spindly fingers, crowding in on his vision and consciousness until they fully get a hold of him and then there’s not much of anything anymore.

(He remembers the cold, tiled floor, icy water mixing with warm blood, Potter’s pale and horrified face, his green, green eyes wide and terrified; the sudden relief that maybe he won’t have to _do_ this, that he’ll get a way out of this mess without even having to ask for it; and then Snape’s face looms over his, and he’s absolutely _furious_ , and Draco knows that it won’t be that easy.)

(But maybe now, when he’s alone and the whole of Wizarding Britain despises him and Snape _isn’t here anymore_ , maybe now it’ll be that easy.)

 

(It’s not.)

 

 

(Because of course it isn’t.)

 


	2. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wanted to have this up earlier this week, but life got in the way. Sorry. 
> 
> But: I think there's no actual warnings for this chapter, except maybe mentioned future panic attacks and of course some lovely angst :)   
> (and harry's here) 
> 
> thanks for your comments on the last chapter, it makes my day every time <3

He remembers vaguely waking up before; some flashes of Healing Spells and Diagnostic Charms, ashen faces and strained expressions, quick wand-movements and Levitating Charms and drawn-back bed curtains, bedsheets stained red with blood, the swish of robes, furious portraits, and, in-between, darkness.

And then there’s light.

And Draco blinks his eyes open, miraculously still alive. 

There is a strange sense of disappointment following immediately after the surprise of waking up at all, irrational bitterness at the world, yet again having failed him. Failed his (small, unconscious, suppressed) hope that, maybe, this time, it’d finally be over, that this would be enough to—

He forcefully drags his mind out of the direction it’s going, because he knows it’s dangerous, he knows what this kind of thinking does to him, and it’s really not something he’d like to deal with right now.

Especially not when he blinks again and yes, the white curtains drawn shut around his bed and the steady beep and pepper-y smell of a Medical Monitoring Charm leave no doubt that he’s in the Infirmary, and that’s just—unacceptable. 

He swallows, tries to sort his mind, get his thoughts in order, but there’s memories missing, something he knows he should remember but doesn’t, and really, he needs to get his bearings if he wants a chance at explaining this away as easily as he’s done it all these other times he was left with little choice than to actually go to the Infirmary, but it’s hard to even _think_ at the moment, let alone plan something like this with the carefulness it requires. 

Just being in Madam Pomfrey’s proximity usually is enough for him to be able to secretly heal most of his own injuries—showing her only the small cuts and bruises, nothing drastic, just something to serve as an explanation for why he’d bother to be here with her in the first place (reminiscent of a time where he made a greater deal of a scratched-up arm than it really was). But no matter how many suspicious looks she’d give him or how many exasperated sighs she’d heave, she’d quick become his favorite member of staff. After all, she’s the only teacher to do more than only tolerate him, so it’s an easy choice to go to her and let her fuss over him for a bit despite the deep-rooted guilt blossoming each time he abuses her good nature and easy trust, rather than put up with glares and cutting side-remarks from the rest of the Hogwarts’ staff. 

But as Draco now fumbles for his wand, entirely in the mind-set of how these things usually go, he finds that _yeah_ , moving is a really bad idea, fuck, that _hurts_ , and also where the hell is his wand? And he remembers that pretty much nothing about this situation is _usual_ , because he hasn’t been able to heal the worst of  it by himself, hasn’t been conscious to make sure that the nurse doesn’t catch a glimpse of something she really shouldn’t, and there’s no way that that particular secret would remain secret for much longer. 

Draco’s hands shake; the Mark itches. The healing cuts on his torso itch almost worse. Only almost, but almost is enough to lead his thoughts into a different direction altogether, and that’s an escape he’s all too eager to take. He’s never been really good at being left alone with his thoughts for too long. It never leads to good things. 

The cuts on his torso itch, and there’s a hint of dittany in the air, and Draco wonders whether or not the marks will truly heal this time, wonders _how_ exactly it is that he still lives even though Snape isn’t here any longer; not physically at least. (But it, unsurprisingly, turns out, even portraits don’t seem to like him very much anymore, and he’s been hoping in vain to stumble upon the painting of his godfather in the abandoned corridors.) He wonders who it was, then, the poor lamb to walk in on Garmetti Cursing the fuck out of Draco, to get to him just in time and actually be able to do something about it. To _want_ to do something about it. 

There’s the flash of an unruly mob of black hair in Draco’s mind’s eye, and his thoughts rush back to Sixth Year and that disastrous night in the bathroom, and Draco theorizes that maybe, even after everything, Garmetti just has’t _meant_ Sectumsempra as much as Potter did back then, and Draco doesn’t know where the thought comes from, but it is there, at the forefront of his mind, and he finds he can’t truly deny it. 

It’s nice to know that Potter still hates him best. 

And despite the original irony of the thought, there’s that stubborn kernel of truth in it that just keeps rubbing Draco the wrong way, chafing with its simple but epiphanic realization. 

It’s the steady hatred practically oozing from the git whenever he’d caught sight of Draco that has been the one constant in this strange new life after War, after all, and Draco’s clinging to it with rather more force than he’d ever bother to admit. It’s infuriating. 

And it’s why he jerks upright in bed when voices start drifting in from the hallway (or so he tells himself); Madam Pomfrey’s gentle lilt, explaining something or another about his condition, and then Potter’s rough voice, “But is he going to be _fine_?” It’s angry, almost, and raw with more emotions than just pure simple hatred, complicated and hurtful things, and Draco isn’t the only one surprised by it, judging by the harsh breath Potter draws in a split-second later, and the quiet gasp of surprise coming from the school nurse. 

Draco swears. His whole body is throbbing with pain, his head aches something fierce, and he’s pretty sure that that’s blood seeping through his robes, where his abrupt movement might have cancelled a healing spell or two. 

The doors fly open. “Mr. Malfoy!” Madam Pomfrey exclaims in that loud, worried no-nonsense voice of hers as she makes a beeline for his bed, immediately starts fussing with various spells and potions and strange-looking machines. “What are you even—you shouldn’t be moving, for Merlin’s sake! Why are you even awake?” She doesn’t expect an answer, and Draco doesn’t try to give her one, just lets her do her thing, the way it’s always been on his visits here, though the wrinkle of concern on her forehead is rather deeper than the last times. “I was so sure I gave you the right amount of Dreamless Sleep, you ought to be healing, after all, not hopping right back out of bed the moment I leave you alone.” 

She’s only muttering to herself, doesn’t really expect him to be listening, but that doesn’t matter to those new instincts hard-wired into him. Draco jerks a little; he hasn’t expected to have been caught at that, but then again, he’s always underestimated the innocent-looking ones. He shudders at the flood of unpleasant memories, and his thoughts start spiraling out of control; she’d given him strict directions last week, after all, rules to follow and to abide by, and he’d gone against them the moment she’d turned her back. He swallows, feeling lightheaded; wonders why she hasn’t try to punish him for that earlier, why she hasn’t come after him and—

“Oh, my boy,” Madam Pomfrey stops what she’s doing and just looks at him, her voice gentling. “I know how you students are like, always eager to escape my boring old presence and not at all happy with having to lie around and do nothing for so long. Dear Mr. Potter is a prime example of that, you know.” She smiles a little wistfully, but doesn’t look upset. 

Still, Draco searches for an excuse, his mind racing now, pulse pounding in his ears, just adding to the head ache. “Well, I—I had a really important Potions Essay due, and I had to finish at least another six inches before—” 

“You’d just broken seven of your fingers, Mr. Malfoy. Do you really think that’s the best excuse you could come up with?” The nurse raises a single eyebrow, skeptical.

“But it’s the truth!” Draco blurts out, and his heart is fluttering in his chest as though it wants to escape; his vision going dark around the edges, blurring with what he hopes aren’t tears. He knows there’s a panic attack lurking just around the corner, the memory of punishment for his lies; heavy hands and red, red eyes, an evil laugh and _slithering_ , and he stumbles over his words as he repeats them in a rush. “It’s the truth, I swear! I’d written it already, a whole fifteen inches more than necessary, but then they—” He bites his tongue, swallows down the words, but it’s too late. He’s been so, so careful, and now he’s ruined it all. 

The expression on Madam Promfrey’s face grows heavy and sad; the line around her mouth tightens, and her eyes go cold as she stares into the middle distance for a moment , lost in thought and what appears to be memories, before she shrugs herself out of it. There’s a determined light in her eyes when she looks at him again, her expression softer, and—if he didn’t know better—almost caring. The silence stretches. Draco’s mouth twitches, his eyes sting, but he forces his own expression to stay flat. Blank. Unreadable. (He’s had good teachers for that, at least.)

“You must have been in excruciating pain,” she says at last, just as carefully neutral in her statement, and Draco shrugs. He chews on his lower lip, stops it as soon as he catches himself at it, only just manages to keep himself from making a comment about how he’s really bloody used to it by now. It doesn’t really help, because he’s sure she can read the truth in his eyes, even if not in the rest of his face. Madam Pomfrey has always been an exception like that, he isn’t sure why. But for the fact that he’s survived the last however many months with the Dark Lord living in his house (because it’s not a home anymore), he’s really bad at disguising what he thinks when it matters—or maybe it’s just because he’s just been sliced open by his godfather’s own creation and he’s in a hellish amount of pain, but then again, that’s hardly an excuse—or at least, that’s what his father wouldn’t hesitate to tell him, would he be here. 

But he’s not, and Draco’s really fucking glad of that fact. He doesn’t know what to say.

His eyes stray, weary under the nurse’s steady gaze, and eventually, they meet Potter’s. Pulling a grimace comes instinctively, though he knows that the sneer lacks bite. He can’t quite work up the energy for that. Apparently Potter’s slunk in behind the nurse, unnoticed, judging by the stern look she gives him now, and his head’s bowed a little, hair falling into his face, but his eyes are bright and fierce where they rest on Draco’s face. He doesn’t look away, though; and then neither of them does for a while. 

Until Madam Pomfrey coughs delicately, at least, snatching their attention back to the matter at hand. 

“Do you remember what happened, Mr. Malfoy?” she asks while she’s pouring a potion into a glass, keeping one eye on Draco as she’s doing so. 

He nods, then shakes his head. He eyes Potter again, not quite knowing what to say, or what it means that he’s here. In the end, he settles for the kind of half-truth he’s learned gives him the most leeway when he uses it right. “I’m not sure. I tripped, I think, somewhere on the third floor when I was walking down from the Owlery. I might have hit my head a little?” He gives a dry chuckle. “Or maybe a lot. It sure feels like it.” 

A second passes, then Potter laughs, startlingly loud and unhappy in the quiet of the Infirmary. Madam Pomfrey sends him a warning look, but doesn’t say anything as she hands Draco the potion. He swallows it down without tasting it, or without even questioning what kind of potion it is. 

Potter’s glowering at him still, but his voice is flat when he says, “Oh, _that’s_ what you call it now? They fucking slashed you open with Sectumsempra, Malfoy. That’s not _tripping_.” 

Draco sneers at him, his mask slipping, “Well, what’s it to _you_?” and he suddenly remembers why he really doesn’t like the git, and then he wonders how he could even forget in the first place.

Madam Pomfrey holds up her hand before they can derail into a proper argument, though. Her voice is deceptively calm when she says, “He saved your life, Mr. Malfoy,” as though that wouldn’t turn his whole world upside down once again. 

Draco’s hands shake as he lifts them to rake his fingers through his hair, tugging sharply. The scars on his torso pull and sting. He wonders how many of them there are now, and whether or not Paulo Garmetti has managed to erase Potter’s markings on his body. 

He hopes not, and the realization is almost enough to tip him over into the panic attack that’s lingering just at the edges of his consciousness, and he knows it’ll hit him squarely the moment he’s alone, and he wonders vaguely how long it’ll take this time until he can draw a proper breath again, and whether maybe this time he’ll actually suffocate, and, and— 

His chest feels tighter by the second as his thoughts race and spin in circles, and then they come to an abrupt halt because _Harry fucking Potter saved his life_. Again. 

“He did what?” Draco asks eventually, when the silence stretches on and he can’t bear it any longer; the weight of it almost oppressive on his chest, stealing away the air to breathe. 

“ _Vulnera Sanentur_ ,” Potter intones quietly, and though he, too, remembers the rusty tang of blood on a bathroom floor, the terrifying reality of death hanging just above their heads. “I’m not entirely useless in Charms, you know?”

Draco laughs even though it hurts in his throat, and his chest, and his head. He’s really fucking tired, suddenly. “I guess not,” he says, and in those precious few moments just before consciousness eludes him once again, he can admit to himself that he’s known that for a really long time now, just as he knows so many other things about Potter that he doesn’t like thinking about properly. Not in daylight, at least. 

“Come on now, Mr. Potter,” is the last thing Draco hears when Madam Pomfrey drags the git away from Draco’s bed. “You can see him again in the morning. He’ll be fine.” 

And then the world fades away, leaving Draco wondering what in the hell happened to make Potter look that reluctant to step away. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts? :)
> 
>  
> 
> the way it looks at the moment, that's about the pace you can expect for the rest of the fic. It's not too plotty, I rather like to focus on the inner workings of the characters and establish my version of this world like this.
> 
> I hope you liked this and that you'll be following the story :)


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> interlude; The First Friend 
> 
> (or, we learn more about Draco's past in this AU, and also, there's the first few seeds of trust, hoping they'll get the chance to grow)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's not a long chapter, really was meant only as an interlude, and since the next chapter is going to be rather long, and i also wanted to focus on Draco's character growth here instead of only just his relationship with Harry, i decided that this deserved to be stand-alone :) 
> 
> i hope you'll like it nevertheless

As expected, the Dreamless Sleep doesn’t exactly live up to its name, doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to; has long since lost that effect for Draco. Really, Draco could have told that Madam Pomfrey himself, but then again, it’s probably not very wise to tell your school nurse that you’d been addicted to the damned potion for two years while the Dark Lord himself resided in your house, and that you’ve only managed to get yourself sober when the side-effects were getting too strong to make up for the little use it still had; when two hours a night weren’t enough, because of course you were expected to be alert at all times, to be ready for a ‘lesson’ in the Dark Arts whenever the respective Death Eater pleased, and that a failure of this lesson meant Cruciatus or worse. Not that it really made a difference later, because being sober from the Sleeping Potion didn’t mean that Draco was any better at torturing Muggles or whatever other hellish games the Death Eaters came up with, but yeah, no, Draco wasn’t about to get into any of that, so he made sure to keep his mouth shut and swallow the potion when Madam Pomfrey held it out for him. Irrationally, he’d still hoped, in that small part of his mind that had refused to die no matter what the Dark Lord came up with, had hoped beyond hope that maybe this time, it’d actually work again. 

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t. 

It just manages to pull him under, to keep him asleep for two or three hours while the nightmares make a mess of his remaining sanity, and when he eventually manages to pull himself out of the potion’s grasp, it’s only to jerk awake with a scream still fresh on his lips, and to Madam Pomfrey standing beside his bed in slippers and a pink nightgown, a bedpan raised above her head as though ready to slam it down on whomever is causing harm to her patient, and there’s a confused, sleep-addled look on her face when there is no one. 

Draco feels the urge to tell her that she’s a witch, surely a wand would be handier in defense than a bedpan, but his heart is still pounding in his chest, chased by fire and death and _Potter_ , and there’s not enough air in his lungs to let him form the words. 

Instead, he just huffs out a breath, a muttered apology of “ _sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you_ ”, rubs at his eyes and wants to turn over onto his side, hide himself away from Madam Pomfrey’s wide-eyed look and just _forget_ , but alas, that turns out to be impossible when the bed dips on one side and the nurse rests her hand on his shoulder to keep him from moving. 

Draco sighs and stares up at the ceiling, not daring to meet her eyes, fearing the pity he’d surely find there. “ _A Malfoy is above pity and sympathy, Draco_ ,” he hears his father’s voice. “ _You mustn’t ever rely on other people’s good faith”_. 

_And that has helped them so much in the end_ , Draco can’t help thinking, bitterly. A bit of pity, the one or other open ear to Draco’s woes, and maybe they wouldn’t ever have landed themselves in this damned situation. Hell, Dumbledore had even offered help, it’s just been that damned Malfoy pride that hadn’t let Draco accept the offer. But maybe there’d been quite a bit of his own cowardliness that had been responsible for that, too. Cowardliness and fear and so, so many mistakes and wrong choices. 

“This time, I really gave you the correct dosage, I’m sure of that” Draco hears Madam Pomfrey saying, as though from a distance. He opens his eyes and finds that he’s closed them, that the nurse is leaning over him now, looking down at him with that wrinkle between her eyebrows and a measuring look in her kind eyes. Draco also finds that the pity is absent from her gaze. Maybe she doesn’t think him worthy of it. After all, it’s only his own mistake that eventually landed him here, his and his family’s and there’s really no excuse and no reason for why she should pity him for that. 

Draco nods slightly, the only acknowledgement to this that he’ll give, and then he presses his lips together and looks away before the understanding blooms on Madam Pomfrey’s face. Her hand tightens on his shoulder, squeezing, and she tuts quietly, thinking. 

“I don’t want to give you any more of it, darling, but you really ought to sleep now. Your body needs the rest, and I’m sure your mind could do with a bit of that, too.” Her hand strokes down his arm, comfortingly, and Draco’s mind is stuck on the term of endearment, and he wonders if maybe he’s still dreaming, because surely she wouldn’t—

“Have you ever tried it with valerian, Mr. Malfoy?” the nurse continues, as though there’s nothing out of the ordinary. “It’s not a magical potion, but the Muggles use it, too, and they swear it’s good for calming your nerves, getting a good night’s sleep. Maybe that’s what you need; some break from all the magic here, good and bad. It does put a strain on the body, after all.” 

Draco’s so tired and so very confused, it’s all he can do to nod, and open his mouth when Madam Pomfrey returns from a potions shelf in her office, holding a small glass phial from which she drips a few drops onto his tongue. 

The effect isn’t immediate, but she stays by his bed until his eyes falls closed, rubbing soothing circles into the skin of his arm, the only place that doesn’t hurt other than the all-present, aching burn that comes with the Mark. He has half a mind to pull his arm away, not wanting to sully her with it, but his muscles are heavy and his body exhausted, and so he lets her presence and touch comfort him, just for tonight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are very appreciated!  
> i'd like to learn what you like and what you don't like about this story, even if it isn't all that long yet. is it somewhat realistic so far?


	4. iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enter: the Golden Trio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meh. 
> 
> (thank you for your comments, you’re wonderful, but i’m really not sure about this chapter, sorry. i’ve had a better feeling about it when i wrote it than now when i re-read it…)
> 
>  
> 
> TW: depiction of a panic attack at the chapter (but if you're sensitive to this kind of stuff, you really shouldn't read on. it's not going to get better all that quickly...)

When he opens his eyes again, the nurse is gone, and in her place there’s Potter.

He looks exhausted. There’s dark shadows under his eyes, his mouth tugged down into a frown, hair disheveled even worse than usual, shoulders slumped and skin pale. 

Draco feels a strange tug in his stomach at the sight of him, and he’s talking before he even realizes he’s opened his mouth. “Did you let a Kneazle make a nest in your hair tonight, Potter?” he sneers, though even he has to admit that there’s an astounding lack of bite in his words. 

Potter looks up, abruptly, and Draco realizes he hadn’t noticed he’s awake yet. But then Potter’s eyes light up a little, and there’s something like relief flitting over his expression, before he quickly steels it into the familiar grimace of pure loathing that he’s worn all his life whenever he’s been around Draco. 

Only this time, Draco doesn’t buy it.

He doesn’t know what exactly it was, but something has changed between them, since last night. A shift of sorts, something to put them off-balance, that will take their lives in a different direction. Draco’s not sure how he knows it, but suddenly he’s sure of it: things will change, and for the first time in his life, it might actually be for the better. 

So Draco lets himself grin at Potter’s scowl, and there’s something warm and fluttery in his chest when Potter blinks, frowns, and then grins back. 

Of course, that’s when the rest of the Golden Trio has to storm in and ruin it all. 

“Harry! Harry, where are—” Granger cuts herself off when she catches sight of him and comes to an abrupt halt, and Weasley’s going too quickly to stop in time, toppling her over and they both land in a heap on the floor. 

Draco laughs, and then he groans, because fuck, his ribs hurt, and he thinks there might have actually a bit more kicks involved yesterday than he’d quite realized. But it’s difficult to keep up with other sources of pain when you’re under Cruciatus, so, he’s really not at fault for not remembering. 

Potter’s brows are furrowed and he worries his lip between his teeth when his gaze lands on Draco again, he blinks and mouths a ‘Alright?’ at him, ignoring his friends’ bickering for the moment, and Draco can only nod, not enough breath in him to actually say anything. It seems as though Madam Pomfrey has found a pain potion that still works on him, and now that the effects are wearing off he begins to feel the whole brunt of his injuries. (Nothing less than what he deserves, then.) Draco swallows, trying to get rid of the suddenly dry feeling in his throat and failing, and he has to avert his eyes from Potter’s green ones, swallows again. _Well, fuck. This is bad, and it’s going to_ _hurt_ _._  

“But what _are_ you doing here, mate?” Weasley asks with a mistrusting look at Draco when he eventually manages to untangle his limbs from his girlfriend’s and proceeds to brush off his robes (‘ _as if that’d help any’_ , Draco doesn’t sneer). He’s just glad for the distraction, now. 

Granger tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, frowning. “Madam Pomfrey told us at breakfast that you’re in the Hospital Wing, and really, Harry, we were worried.” 

The Weasel exchanges a look with Granger, and adds, “You _know_ we’ve been worried. Why haven’t you just told us what—” he cuts himself off, suddenly whirling on Draco. “And what are you even doing here, you fu—”

“Ron!” Harry says. _Potter_ , Draco scolds himself. _It’s Potter. Get a fucking grip._ “It’s not his fault!” he pauses, frowns, says, slowly, “Well, in a way, it sort of is, but it’s definitely _not_ what you think.”

“Oh?! And what do I think? Because from the way _I_ see it, the bloody Ferret has somehow managed to land you in the Infirmary all over again, and I’ll be damned if I just let—”

“Ron.” Granger’s voice is quieter when she tugs at her boyfriend’s arm and interrupts his rant. “I think it’s really not like that,” she says, and points at the bed, where Draco’s lying in, and Potter’s sitting next to. 

Weasley pauses, and his head is still bright red with rage, but his eyes are big in surprised shock when he takes in the situation for the first time. “Oh,” he says again, quietly. His forehead wrinkles and he screws up his nose. “Well. That’s… good, then.” Draco really doesn’t know what Granger sees in him. 

“Ron!” Granger scolds him, and there’s an apologetic look thrown Draco’s way that puts him off-balance, suddenly feeling wrong-footed. This whole situation is bizarre, and if there wouldn’t be pain emanating from where he’s digging his fingernails into his palm in an attempt to keep quiet, Draco would be convinced that this is just some really fucked-up dream. Not a nightmare, because in these last months he’s learned what nightmares are like, and this is much too painless for it to be one. At least it’s painless if one doesn’t count the awkwardness and cringe-worthy feeling to the whole thing as _pain_. Which Draco really, really doesn’t. 

So. He’s confused, unsure, out of his depth. He lashes out, if only verbally due to the… situation.

“Well, isn’t that interesting?” Draco drawls, eventually, because, yes, he’s still Draco, and he really can’t help himself. He opens his mouth, wants to continue, to bitingly comment on just what he thinks of these _Gryffindors_ , but then there’s Potter’s hand on his arm just out of his friends’ sight, and Draco’s teeth clack together painfully from how hard he snaps his mouth closed again, and the flutter in his chest grows to uncomfortable levels. 

Granger ignores him. “But really, Harry, what _are_ you doing here?” _With_ _him_ , goes unsaid. 

“I—just—” Potter stammers, raking a hand through his hair, and _isn’t_ _that_ _interesting_? 

“I’d really like to know that, too, Potter,” Draco says, and this whole thing is almost worth it for the dumbfounded look that the Weasel now gets on his face. 

Unfortunately, it doesn’t serve to fluster _Potter_ further, too. Rather on the opposite, actually, because suddenly the look in his eyes grows fierce and angry, almost reminiscent of the way he’d used to look at Draco, but the burning emotion behind it doesn’t seem to be directed at him. 

Or maybe it is, because Potter’s next words definitely are, and they’re not happy. “Me too, Malfoy, _me too_. What the fuck were you thinking? Because you do remember, don’t you, and I just can’t imagine why you’d—” he breaks off, takes a deep breath, tries again. “How long has this been going on?”

Draco stills. His heart stops in his chest, and then resumes its beat, so much harder than before. He can’t know. He _can’t_. 

His breath gets stuck in his throat as he stares at Potter, and Granger’s “ _What are you talking about, Harry?_ ” sounds as though it comes from far away, under water maybe, or like when you’re riding on a broom and the wind rips the words from your lips, and then he’s falling and there’s fire licking at his heels, and he can’t reach Harry’s hand and he’s _falling_ and the fire’s consuming him, skin and hair and bones, the smoke doesn’t let him breathe, and he _can’t breathe_ —

“Malfoy. Malfoy! _Draco_!” 

Draco gasps, and there’s air, and it doesn’t smell of smoke, but Harry’s here, right next to him, and Draco clings to him for life when a sob tears itself from his throat. Harry says, “ _Get out,_ ” and Draco’s breath catches in his throat as something in his chest clenches, pulling taut, ( _hurts_ ,) and he tries to let go of Harry, of _Potter_ , to make his fingers loosen and let go of Potter’s robe where they’re clenched tightly around the rough fabric, and he tries to shove away from him, to get out, do as he’s asked because he really can’t—

But then there’s strong, warm fingers threading through his sweat-slick hair and Potter’s voice against his ear, saying, “Shhh, no, not you, I didn’t mean you. Stay, come on, Draco, relax, and breathe for me, okay? Breathe. It’s okay.” He chokes, swallows, says, “It’s going to be okay.” and Draco really wants to believe him, but he’s not sure he can, because his father’s in Azkaban’s and his mother’s confined to the Manor, all alone, and he’s _here_ , and it’s Hogwarts, but it’s not the home it used to be, and really, Draco can’t imagine this is ever going to be okay again. 

But Harry has called him Draco, and he’s here, and his body’s warm, his arms strong, and maybe he can actually hold Draco up for just a little longer. Just long enough so he can breathe again, so the fog in his mind lifts, the pounding headache dulls a little, as his thoughts grow clearer and less frantic, and he _breathes_ , and it doesn’t hurt as much, and his racing heart calms a little, the next breath goes down deep enough so the numb tingle in his fingertips stops, though that might also come from how tight Potter’s holding him, and has he really just called Draco by his given name? 

He relaxes, bit by bit, even as confusion washes over him and he asks himself not for the first time what the fuck Potter is actually doing here, with him. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Potter says, again, and Draco wonders if maybe, he can believe him. Harry has defeated the Dark Lord once already, after all, so maybe he can do it all over again, even if it’s just the one left behind in Draco’s head. 

“Is it really?” Draco mumbles against Potter’s shoulder, and he’s glad when his voice doesn’t shake. Potter’s arms tighten around him for a split-second, so much so it’s almost painful, and then he carefully lets go of Draco without _really_ letting go, his hands still on Draco’s arms as he holds him at a small distance, to properly look him in the eye. 

There’s that determined glint in these green, green eyes, the one that Draco’s always been a little jealous of, and Potter’s face is almost grim when he keeps holding Draco’s gaze for several long moments until he nods, and says, “I promise.”

And Draco finds that yes, he does believe him. 

He just wonders what it might cost them both to keep that promise. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well. 
> 
> i really hoped you liked this. why don't you let me know with kudos and/or comments? :)
> 
> and if you didn't like it, i'd be really interested to know why that is. i promise i won't be hateful about negative comments, as long as it's constructive feedback and not offensive :)
> 
> thank you for reading

**Author's Note:**

> Well, so that has been quite a start. I really have no idea whether anyone will actually read this, let alone like it, so. 
> 
> if you've made it this far (congratulations!) then know that this is most likely the worst it's going to get in form of actual graphical 'torture'. it's not going to be all fluff now, though. i will make people actually work through their issues, which will mean talking about it, and maybe also the one or other 'flash-back', so to speak. 
> 
> there are five more chapters mostly written, but this will be a fic where i don't have much plot and will just write whatever comes to mind, so it might go off on many tangents, but i'll try to move the story forward nonetheless. 
> 
> anyway. if you're not yet tired of my rambling, i'd really appreciate it if you left a comment or kudos, especially since it's my first time writing harry potter and i haven't actually got much of an idea of what i'm doing here.
> 
> thank you!


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